


my hands can't hold enough

by cmbing



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sorry Not Sorry, this is so meandering and fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:33:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22908619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmbing/pseuds/cmbing
Summary: “I loved snow days when I was a kid,” he tells her that morning, imprinting his smile on her shoulder. “My mom would make me hot chocolate and give metenmarshmallows.”(or; jake, amy, and a snow day)
Relationships: Jake Peralta/Amy Santiago
Comments: 11
Kudos: 69





	my hands can't hold enough

**Author's Note:**

> so, for the past week in scotland, i've been waking up to it flurrying outside and of course, it left me wishing for jake and amy to have a snow day. i give you endless meandering prose and literally no plot. you're welcome.

She watches how the snow, slow and wispy and almost nostalgic, falls into his hair, cold white against brown curls. His left hand is warm in hers, and she feels the expected weight of his wedding ring, no longer so sharp and metal almost two years into their marriage. He leans into her side as he stares up, up at the skyscrapers and impermeable blanket of grey clouds, as if he had never seen them before. Wide, wide eyes and a tilted smile that she can’t help but kiss on street corners.

“I loved snow days when I was a kid,” he tells her that morning, imprinting his smile on her shoulder. “My mom would make me hot chocolate and give me _ten_ marshmallows.”

She doesn’t complain when Terry calls five minutes later, telling them not to come in—Jake and Amy have endured a series of exhausting cases lately—and Amy hangs up with a smile, further snuggling into her husband. His arm is heavy across her back, and she buries her nose into the hollow of his throat, the smell of spice and clean sheets greeting her. Their legs tangle, whole and complete and intertwined, something of a metaphor of what they’ve become. Her thumb runs over his jaw, warm skin and solid bone. She keeps her eyes shut, caught in that realm between wakefulness and sleep, but she knows he’s smiling: it’s his most natural state. She thinks, if only they could stay like this.

Eventually, Jake murmurs that they should go outside and enjoy the snow (She moans, “But it’s freezing outside—“ “Don’t worry, Ames, I’ll keep you warm,” he grins with a wink).

So, that’s how she finds herself outside during a Brooklyn snowstorm. Her breath almost looks silver in the air, the soft, white flakes getting caught in her eyelashes. Jake amiably chats away about his upcoming movie night with Charles—“We’re watching _Frozen 2!_ ”—and Amy happily listens along, the warmth of his voice cutting through the February chill. The sidewalks are iced and near blue, the snow crunching underfoot like the timed beat to a song. She has always marveled at New York during a storm: cars are infrequent and the city that never sleeps succumbs to a calm lull, of falling snowflakes and quiet mouths.

“Ames,” he’s pulling her into him. “Let’s go here.”

It’s a quaint cafe—quite literally a hole in the wall with its square opening carved into a brick wall. A few people stand in line while others meander and smile behind the sweet steam of hot coffee. Two women work in the cafe (Amy isn’t sold on if it can be called that considering the lack of seating), bustling to serve drinks and take customers’ money. 

“Can’t we go someplace that’s indoors?” Amy gripes with a shiver. 

“But they have mint hot chocolate, babe!” Her husband exclaims like he’s ten-years-old and finding out school has been canceled. “With extra whipped cream!”

Perhaps she’s gone soft, but she gives in, letting him drag her along. Jake orders his sugary drink—“A large for me and my _wife_ ”—with a smile so wide and earnest, Amy begins to blush, a rose-red against her pale, wind-bitten cheeks. He takes a sip, and his eyes shine like sun through ice.

He holds out the cup to her. “You gotta try it. It’s, like, stupid good.”

She takes the cup, briefly relishing in its radiating heat, before taking a sip. The drink is hot, yet cooly mint, with the perfect bite of dark chocolate. “Alright,” she says, eyes half-lidded. “It’s pretty good.”

“Told you we didn’t need to go somewhere indoors,” he says, a smirk cutting across his face. 

She takes another taste, eager and thankful for the warmth it provides. When she looks back up at her husband, he breaks into a goofy smile, trying to smother it behind his hand. “What is it?”

He hums: “Oh, nothing.”

“ _Jake._ ”

“You’ve got a little—“ and his lips fall on hers, kissing the whipped cream off her top lip. Somehow, in the winter air, she’s melting into him, his hand on her cheek and her free hand on the back of his neck. It’s gentle and nothing more, soft mouths meeting, tasting of hot chocolate and she thinks, love is this simple. This and this and this—standing on a quiet Brooklyn sidewalk, kissing without a care with snow in their hair and affection on their tongues. 

They walk a dance back to their apartment, hands enclasped and taking melodic steps. At one point, he tries to twirl her but ends up spinning himself, and they’re laughing. Laughing because it’s easy and laughing because they can, forgetting about unfinished cases and paperwork and remembering them: a constant center within busy streets and blinking lights. His lips are against her temple when he pulls her in close, and she feels as though he is everywhere, everywhere. 

When they get home, delirious on hot chocolate and stripped of their winter clothing, he falls back onto their couch and tugs her to his lap. His hands smooth over her ribs, her back, her hips, consuming and _him_ , if she can put a proper word to it. She sinks into his touch, still as breathless as she was on their undercover case all those years ago. When he kissed her at the restaurant, and she kissed him against the tree, and the real version of them collided, gentle and true, in the evidence locker. Here, in their apartment, it’s easier, more languid and thoughtful and known, but the thrill remains the same.

He looks at her, dazed, with a lazy smile. “Happy snow day, babe.”

“You have any other plans for us today?” she asks, amused. “Or are we just going to make out on our couch?”

He holds her hips with intention. “I’m pretty cool with making out with my hot wife.”

Her hands curve around his neck, thumbs on his jaw, and he watches her with constellations in his eyes. She says, “I’m surprised you’re not making me have a snowball fight with you.”

“Oh, Ames, you know I would kick your frozen—but very cute—ass if we did that.”

“Please,” she scoffs. “Five of my brothers played baseball. They taught me how to throw a mean curveball.”

His eyes widen. “Did you ever wear those tight baseball pants because _babe—“_

She bats at his chest. “Could you stop being a flirt for one second?”

“Nope,” he grins widely. “Because you married me, and that means we’re kinda stuck together forever.”

“I guess we kinda are,” and she’s smiling too.

They never make it back outside; but they do end up in matching pairs of grey sweatpants and ragged NYPD shirts, outfits they once made the mistake of wearing in front of Charles during last year’s trip to the beach house. “They’re twinning!” He had cheered, brimming with joy and—were those tears in his eyes? Amy couldn’t tell. 

They don’t make it far from the couch, minus once for Chinese food delivery and second for Jake to put in one of his worn _Die Hard_ DVDs. “It’s the perfect film for today,” he tells her. “It’s a winter movie.”

“That seems like a bit of stretch,” she says. 

“But it involves Christmas!”

“It’s February, Jake.”

He drags her down next to him, knowing it’ll end their bantering, and they lay on their sides. His body seems bigger this way, how he curls around her and splays his hand across her stomach, keeping her flush and close. When the credits roll, their eyelids droop. Outside, slate grey melts into syrupy blackness, coating the night sky. Snow continues to fall, but softer, more elegant. A crescendo and swirl of white, backlit by street lights. 

“Have a good day, Ames?” he mumbles into her hair. 

“Of course,” she says, sure and absolute.

“I honestly thought,” he considers, “you would get FOMOW.”

Her eyebrows screw together. “Why would I get that?”

“Because you love work and solving cases and doing paperwork, and I don’t mean that as a bad thing, not at all, it’s just how you are and—“

“Babe,” she says, “you’re rambling.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says softly.

She moves around in his arms so now they face. She looks at the pink bend of his mouth, the richness of his eyes, the dimple on his chin. She’ll never tire of his intricacies. “Did you ever consider,” she asks, “I only get FOMOW about working with you?”

His mouth shifts, a small quirk of confusion. “What?”

“I get the fear of missing out on work _with you_.”

“Oh,” and his eyelashes flutter. “Oh.”

“Whenever you’re at work and I’m not, I hate it. Even before we started dating, and I kinda hated you—“

“More like had a crush on me—“

“—That was you, babe.”

He reluctantly nods.

“I liked being around you because you pushed me, and you still do. So when you’re at work, and I’m elsewhere, I feel like I’m missing out. I know I’m not a detective anymore, but you’re always going to be my partner. I just like being… well… with you.”

He kisses her hard and with intent, holding her face like he’s holding the world in his hands. “I love you,” he breathes out when they break apart. 

“I love you, too,” she smiles with ease. “So yeah, work is fun, but work with you is better. And even better than that? Spending a lazy day with my husband.”

“Even when it’s practically zero degrees outside?”

“Then, too. Although, I still could have gone the whole day without going outside.”

“But that cocoa was to die for!”

“We definitely could have made that at home. How hard can it possibly be?”

He replies flatly, “The smoke detector went off the last time you tried to make pasta _._ ”

Exasperated, she says, “I think there’s something wrong with that detector, okay? It’s not like a fire actually started.” 

He rolls his eyes, but it’s fond with affection, and his thumb sweeps across her cheekbone. “Whatever you say, Ames.”

She huffs, "I know I'm right," but she can't help but kiss the smirk right off his face.

Eventually, they make it to bed, slow and serene. And when the snow finally drifts, so do they. 


End file.
